Gorge
by Davies
Summary: "The choosers of the slain would feast well today." Guest-starring Karl Edward Wagner's Kane.


_"Crom, I have never prayed to you before. I have no tongue for it. No one, not even you, will remember if we were good men or bad. Why we fought, and why we died. All that matters is that today, two stood against many. Valor pleases you, so grant me this one request. Grant me revenge! And if you do not listen, then FUCK YOU!"_

_Traditional Cimmerian prayer, usually presented in bowlderized form._

The choosers of the slain would be pleased with this day's takings.

Autumn had come early to the narrow mountain pass, just as it had come early to all the lands in this worst of all years. The gray sky and dull brown grass suited each other, and the few flakes of snow drifting down from the cliffs only added a final, somber accent to the scene.

They had made their last stand here, the band of brigands who'd ridden out to challenge the might of the army that threatened the western lands, and drawn down that army's wrath upon themselves. Had their own horses been perhaps a little fresher, they might have made it into the pass and eluded their pursuers in the rocky maze. Or perhaps not; the bloody swath they'd cut through the enemy forces, and the wounds they'd taken in the doing, had left too obvious a trail for any scout to miss.

The fighting was all but over now. The band had made their foes pay dearly for their victory, but that enemy could afford the price. All of the men had fallen in the end, no matter how many opponents had gone shrieking into the grave before them.

All of the men, save one: their chief. The white-maned and bearded elder, girded in fine mail-and-plate, still stood before the body of his horse, blood dripping through the chinks in his armor, and red-shaded clouds billowing from his lungs whenever he took a breath. For all that, his sword was steady, and his icy eyes gleamed with murderous intent.

The simple solution, of course, would have been to have the men draw their bows and send arrows streaking to pierce him through. Yet the officer gave no such order, for his own commands had been explicit. When the brigand leader was brought to bay, they were to wait for the general. He would witness the finale himself, and if any of them wondered why their master would not be satisfied to have the man's head brought before him, they kept such wonderings close to their hearts. Wondering was always dangerous, in the soldier's trade, but especially so in this army.

At last, the general rode his pale horse into the pass, and brought it to a halt as he sighted the chief. The red-bearded man in the black cloak shook his half-masked head once, and spoke with plain amusement. "I might have known it was you," he said casually, in the common language of that time and place, as he stepped down from the horse and drew his greatsword from its sheath.

The chief said naught in reply, only clenched his teeth so that the sound of their grinding could be heard by all.

The general strode forward with his blade outstretched, until he was in sword's reach of the chief, who lashed out with a deadly stroke. The masked man blocked it effortlessly, forced both the swords away from them, and kicked up at his foe's groin. The leg connected, and all the muscles in the chief's body seemed to go limp at once, the sword dropping from his hand. With a slash of his own, the general sent the chief tumbling to the ground before him.

"Any last words, oh thou who trode the jeweled thrones of the world beneath thy sandled feet?" the general asked sardonically. Whatever murder had been in the chief's eyes was dwarfed by that in those gleaming blue orbs.

He drew in one last breath, and answered, his voice thick with the accent of his barbaric youth. "I'll be back."

The sword came down and hewed his skull in twain.

"Very unlikely," his killer commented a few moments later, as he wiped his blade clean of blood and brains. Although, he thought, there was something naggingly familiar about this one ... but that was probably just the way that they all tended to blur together.

He turned away from the corpse as the sound of approaching hoofbeats filled the pass. Moments later, one of his captains rode into sight, his eyes wild. "My lord!" he called. "They attack!"

"What?" he snapped.

"Our enemies, lord - they have launched a massive sortie against our forces, circling around to flank us -"

"But -" The general stopped then, and turned to stare at the remains of the man he'd just killed. "A feint," he said softly, but his voice grew louder as he spoke on. "All of this, a feint to draw my attention away from them and onto - I killed you too fucking swiftly, Cimmerian!" That last was snarled.

He bounded up into his saddle. "Come on, dammit!" he called. "We can still salvage something from all of this!"

In moments, the pass was nearly empty, save for the corpses.

Nearly, for though all the men of the band were dead, not all those who'd rode with the band had been men. The last survivor was a woman, and she still lived. Her foes had been too distracted by the spectacle of the chief's last stand to be sure of her death, and it was possible that they had not even realized her sex. It mattered little, however; she had dealt enough death to know that her own end was near.

Her hair, gone white with only a handful of red strands remaining, moved in the light wind as she half-stumbled, half-crawled to where the chief lay. She could not explain why she did so; they had never been more than acquaintances and brethren-in-arms. Perhaps that was enough. In any event, reasons no longer mattered in her world, if indeed they ever had.

She reached his side, and lay there awhile, staring up at the empty sky.

And then the pass was empty of life.

The ravens came to gorge themselves.


End file.
